


the lure of the jump

by clayre



Series: picture it, soft [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Crushes, F/M, Feelings Realization, Flirting, Friendship, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Self-Esteem Issues, just two buddies hanging out, the OH moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayre/pseuds/clayre
Summary: Strange, he thought, how quickly his perception of her had shifted ─ all it had taken was one look, in one afternoon.Alistair realizes there might be more to his relationship with the Warden than he'd initially thought.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Series: picture it, soft [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812277
Comments: 19
Kudos: 61





	the lure of the jump

**Author's Note:**

> omg it's been a month since i posted anything... who am i......... LMAO i've got another fic in the works that was supposed to be a one shot, but it's racking up at 22k words so far and i'm not done yet 😭 hopefully soon!!
> 
> find me @wrdencmndr on twitter if you ever want to talk abt alistair with me 🥺👉👈 i love him so much.. LOL

The sun was beginning to set, the light of it cast low and golden over the stretch of their campsite and the inhabitants within the clearing. 

Morrigan kept mostly to herself, though it had not gone unnoticed that she cradled the head of the Warden’s mabari hound in her lap, idly stroking him behind the ears while she patiently cleaned a stately necklace the Warden had picked up for her. She’d been very coy about it, scoffing as the Warden offered it to her, but as soon as she thought no one was watching, she’d admired the piece up along the pale expanse of her collarbone, peering into the shine of Alistair’s recently polished breastplate as though it were a mirror and preening over her reflection. Alistair  _ almost _ found it sweet, but he knew better.

Sten, on the other hand, was nearer, but he seemed to be meditative and  _ more _ than happy to ignore everyone, including the smell of dinner stewing over the fire, which was rich and creamy and mouthwatering. Leliana had offered to prepare supper, and when Alistair had asked her what smelled so good, she’d given him a secretive little smile and said, “Orlesian butter soup! That awful little merchant had everything I needed, and I couldn’t resist. Awfully expensive, though. Oh, but you’ll love it! Uh, ah, not that your Ferelden soups aren’t very lovely, of course, but they’re not so . . . sophisticated.” 

She’d drawn the good hand when it came to supper: they were only days from Lothering, and their supplies were replenished and fresh. (Morrigan had brought Wilds food, of course, but it was all dried, salted meats that Alistair  _ really _ hoped was rabbit, and strips of fruit leather. Lothering may have been destitute, but the first meal they had at the tavern was hot and filling and even Morrigan seemed relieved.) They’d be relegated to Alistair’s lamb and pea stew within the next handful of weeks, however, and food shouldn’t have to be sophisticated, anyway. 

He’d tried to sample it nonetheless, but Leliana had caught him and shooed him away with an annoyed, “It’s not done! At least another hour, surely you can wait that long, can’t you?”

He could, but he was bored, and there was very little to do around camp with the addition of Sten’s company. The Qunari was a chore-hog, but Alistair was disinclined to argue the matter with him. He preferred his head on his shoulders, and something told him Sten could rip it clean off with only his bare hands. Besides, he understood: he’d certainly have been aching for something productive to do after spending all those weeks in a cage, so he let it go.

“Alistair?”

Alistair drew his attention from his pack, one hand buried inside it, and squinted up in the sun. The Warden stood over him, illuminated from behind, and she was dressed down in only a white tunic, plain brown trousers, and her muddied boots. She was smiling. He moved his hands to his lap, returning the gesture and prompting, “What do you need?”

“It’s just a short walk to Lake Calenhad,” she informed him, notwithstanding that he was well aware of the fact. He hummed low in his throat to signify to her that he was listening, and to continue. “I was thinking of heading there now. Thought maybe you’d like to join me?”

He would, but he liked playing hard to get with her. If he was lucky, he could earn this little ─  _ thing _ she did with her cheek, where she’d try so hard to fight the smile wanting to grow over her mouth that she’d pucker her lips and one of the corners would quirk upwards, wobbly, until just the one cheek dimpled. Just the one. It was all very dopey and coquettish and he rather fancied it. He tilted his chin up to grin at her. “And what would give you that idea?”

“You bought shaving soaps from that _charming_ profiteer.” He blinked up at her, a little surprised she’d noticed at all, and that she bothered to remember such a thing. “You’re not in your armor,” Alistair looked down, pinching the wool of his arming doublet between two fingers and studying it, “and you’re digging around in your satchel. You’re going to shave.”

He brushed his doublet down, leaning back on his palms and cocking his brow, whistling pitched and strong through his teeth. “Wow. Don’t mind me. I’m trying to decide if you’re very observant, or very creepy.”

She beamed. “And very correct?”

“And very correct, yes.”

“Good.” Then, suddenly, the Warden snatched his pack away from him while he left it defenseless, and he wasn’t fast enough in how he swiped out with his hand ─ he missed it, and he watched it bounce in the air above him, like bait on a hook as she teetered it just out of reach. She didn’t falter even when he leveled her with what he hoped was a stern look, though he could feel his mouth pursing to fight the smile off. Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely sure he was managing to look anything but amused. She grinned at him, in that cunning way of hers that made him feel like she knew something he didn’t. (Though most people did, he assumed.) “Keep me company at the lake, Alistair. I feel like I stuck my head in a darkspawn’s open wound. You can shave while I wash my hair.”

“But the water will be cold,” he pointed out, faux-petulant. “It’s not swimming season. I can boil water here.”

“Leliana’s using the fire. You’ll be waiting for an hour, at least, and by then it’s going to be dark. You’d shave in the dark? What if it’s all patchy?”

Alistair looked over his shoulder, as though he wasn’t aware that Leliana was currently preparing the most amazing smelling soup. “Oh, well, would you look at that. You’re right.” He dropped his head back, sighing loud up into the open air. “All right, all right. You win. Maker knows we walked all day, but sure, what’s a little more, right?”

“We’ll bring some firewood and a flagon,” the Warden said brightly. “Heat it up at the lake. Come on.” She lowered her voice into a smooth dulcet, tempting him with, “The company will be good.” She drew the last word out, sing-song.

Alistair leveraged himself to his feet, squinting hard at her even while he smirked. “Is that a compliment to me, or to you?”

She pressed his pack into his chest, gentle but insistent, and said with a wicked grin, “Yes.”

The walk, blessedly, was not very long. A handful of minutes, most of which were spent with idle chatter ─ the Warden was  _ always _ asking questions, and he was still trying to parse whether her interest was in him, specifically, or if she was simply trying to fill the quiet. More and more, these days, he leaned towards the former: there’d been many times where she’d taken to his side to eat dinner, or to sharpen her sword, close enough that he thought she’d wanted to chat, but they’d simply focused on their own tasks in each other’s space. 

He wasn’t entirely used to the attention, if he could bear to be honest with himself. It’s not that he didn’t have friends, really, but . . . well. Yes. He didn’t  _ exactly _ have friends, not anymore. Most of the men he’d befriended had died at Ostagar, and many of the initiates at the monastery were either disinterested in mingling with a bastard, or they assumed he was pompous and looked down his nose at them. That wasn’t to say he didn’t have  _ any _ friends, but he wasn’t missing anyone dearly, and he never wrote any letters.

But he considered the Warden to be a friend, now, and he was content enough to talk and have her listen. Sometimes, if he prompted her, she’d talk too, but she was quieter than he was. When she wasn’t aware of him, he’d watch her, because she’d look . . . disconsolate. He could imagine: Duncan had spoken to him, briefly, about what had transpired in Highever. Alistair didn’t know all the details, but from what he’d understood, she had plenty of reason to be unhappy. She seemed less so when he talked, though. She seemed engaged, and lively, and she’d laugh at all the right spots and play along when he deflected, only to needle the truth out of him anyway, and he figured that was as good a comfort as any.

Once they approached the lake, however, they fell quiet as they took the scenery in. Lake Calenhad’s reach was massive: the next coastline wasn’t visible to the naked eye, and yet the waters were, at times, shockingly still. The wind still urged ripples of waves across its surface, and the beach was worn from the tide, but it was calmer than waters of the Storm Coast, or from the Amaranthine Sea. The Warden pulled on his shoulder before she took the decline down onto the beach, and she leaned on him as she removed her boots. On the slope, she was taller than him, and it was strange to look up at her.

“Have you heard,” she asked, jerking one sturdy boot from her foot, “the legend of Lake Calenhad?”

“I  _ am _ Fereldan,” he pointed out, uneasily. The Warden didn’t seem to notice, laughing as she used him as a balance, and the smile on her face made her cheeks dimple exactly the way he liked. Ugh, he  _ liked. _ He liked  _ her.  _ They were friends, and she . . . she had a right to know. She had a right to know that Lake Calenhad was  _ his _ legacy ─ he was a direct descendant of Calenhad Theirin, and he was heir to the throne. More than that, she  _ needed _ to know. With Cailan dead, and Ferelden on the brink of a civil war, he should . . . he ought to . . . it was his duty.

He watched her struggle with the lacing of her boot, his mouth pursed and his thoughts racing. This was as good a time as any to confess to her. What better invitation was there than that? It would be an easy segue.  _ Of course I know the legend of Lake Calenhad! That’s my family’s history! Speaking of, did  _ **_you_ ** _ know that Calenhad Theirin is actually my ancestor? It’s true! Hi, my name’s Alistair Theirin, you can call me Prince Alistair. It’s nice to meet you formally.  _

And then her boot finally came off, with more force than she was expecting, and she lost her footing; she lurched to the right with the momentum, hands flying out to attempt to catch her balance, and her boots went soaring. Alistair caught her ‘round the shoulders before she could go bouncing down the hill, and he held her in a dip as though he’d had her in a dance, the metal of her shield digging into his arm. The thud of her boot hitting the ground was almost inaudible over the anxious thud of his heart, the words just behind the seal of his mouth. This was it.

He lost his courage as he studied her face. The Warden was smiling, big and wide and breathless, a little flushed from the familiar rush of adrenaline that came with the sensation of falling. They got along famously together; he didn’t want to lose this, not yet. What he said was, “Fond of the tale, are you?”

Her weight left him as she righted herself, carefully, her hands pressed hard into his shoulders.“I am,” she agreed, sounding a little winded. “The first king of Ferelden bore the lifeblood of his country up every floor of Kinloch Hold, one chalice’s worth at a time, and in return, Ferelden shielded him from all harm.” He watched her as she caught her breath, a stray lock of hair falling over her face. He had the strangest urge to brush it away. “Whew. Just the same as you saving my life just then,” she teased, finally pulling herself completely away from him. “Thank you. Please don’t tell anyone I very nearly rolled down this hill. I have a reputation to maintain.” He laughed despite the anxiety in his gut, and she gathered up her single boot ─ the other laid haplessly on the beach after she’d thrown it. “But, ah, yes, the legend . . . Imagine that. Serving your country so faithfully that she serves you in return. It’s a romantic notion.”

Alistair hummed, offering her an arm. She took it gratefully, and he led her down the decline. “Yes, very romantic. And then he probably got incredibly drunk, had a mistress, had a  _ very _ angry wife, dueled for his mistress’ honor, abdicated his reign in disgrace, and disappeared to Maker only knows where.” The Warden barked out a laugh after he’d finished, and he drew his shoulders up in a shrug. “Ferelden could have chosen someone more worthy, is all I’m saying.”

“Treason,” she teased, looking down on him. Her dark hair almost seemed to glow in the bath of golden light. “Such disparaging words against the one true royal bloodline. And here you said you were a born and bred Fereldan.” 

“True,” he deadpanned. “Ferelden should have chosen a mabari as her champion.” The sincere peals of her cackling were like music, genuine and warm. Alistair could feel the tension of his shoulders seep out of him, and he very quietly decided that he wouldn’t tell her, not yet. He wanted this: a friend who liked him, exactly as he was, who laughed at his jokes because she thought they were funny, not out of obligation to the throne ─ or worse, out of fear of retribution. Her hands left his arm when they reached the embankment, and she bounced ahead to look out over the waters. 

The wind tousled her hair as Alistair shrugged his sword and shield from off his shoulders, and a moment later, her voice claimed his attention again. “We should try it,” she said in amusement, and she turned to look at him as he peeled his doublet off, “and take a goblet of Calenhad’s water up the tower, until Ferelden grants us a boon. Nothing would ever harm us.” As she’d said it, he’d carefully laid his jacket out over the sand: a place to keep their personal effects clean.

He snorted, rolling his eyes in exaggeration, and gestured for her to hand him her things. “So. We’ll spend the rest of the evening touting goblet after goblet of murky lake water up the tower, will we? After you nearly tumbled down, I supposed we’ll need it. How _ ever _ shall we defeat the Blight if you’re tripping over your own feet?” He grinned as he said it, and she smiled back just as conspiratorially, dropping the shoulder band of her pack into his waiting hand, followed by her sword in its scabbard, and then her shield’s strap. “And then shall we get  _ very _ drunk, and disappear forever? For accuracy’s sake, of course.”

“Would that be so bad?” The Warden was joking, she must have been, but he could hear longing in her voice, could read the yearning in her far-off gaze as she turned it to Calenhad’s meek waves. She drifted back towards the beach, the water lapping at her bare feet. “You and me, Alistair. When the,” she hesitated, and he could only see the back of her head, her hair as the wind teased through it, “when the Blight is over. When we kill the archdemon, and when we rebuild the Grey Wardens here. We could travel all of Thedas, and help all of her peoples, not just the Fereldans. We could have new names. We could ─” She stopped.

Alistair blinked at her, brows slowly climbing towards his hairline, caught completely unawares. The idea of a name ─ a new one, on that was all his own ─ was appealing, but of course it was. His name was a burden. Her name was a symbol of honor, of nobility: Cousland. Strong, firm, dependable. Why she’d want to abdicate was . . . well, actually, no. He understood. Hearing that name must have been a painful reminder of everything she’d lost. Carefully, he lowered her weapons and her pack onto his spread out doublet, trying to come up with an answer that wasn’t dismissive or mocking, but the moment was over just as suddenly as it came. She looked over her shoulder at him, her mouth curved into a grin, like it was all a joke he was too slow to get.

“But you’ll have to shave first,” she said lightly. “Can’t kill the archdemon with an unmaintained beard.”

He subconsciously and derisively rubbed at his chin, his stubble scraping against the pads of his fingers. “That terrible, is it?” He sounded distracted even to himself.

She grinned at him as she waded into the water again, ankle deep, and she told him, “It’s not terrible. Quite the opposite. Maker, water’s cold.”

Oh. Alistair drew his fingers along the scratchy length of his beard, more thoughtful than deprecating this time. 

“I have a mirror in my pack you can use, if you want to. Bigger than yours,” she called out to him. She paused, then aimed a particularly iniquitous grin at him, and he made an exceptionally exaggerated show of rolling his eyes, curling a lip in disgust. She burst into laughter, and the flush of pride he felt in his cheeks and his chest had him turning to her knapsack to hide his own smile. When he looked to the Warden again, she was peeling her trousers from around her legs, bent over, her modesty only protected by the length of her tunic.

_ “Oh, Maker,” _ he yelped in a pitched voice that he would deny he was ever capable of. As he said it, he cupped a hand around his eyes and kept his line of sight fixed onto the dirt beneath him. “You could have warned me,” he said, raising his volume so as to be heard over her laughter.

“I apologize. It was cruel of me to not consider your virtue, ser,” she teased. There was a pause, brief, and her voice drifted to him again. “I just don’t want to get my clothes wet. I’ll catch a cold, and then I’ll be miserable, and I’ll let everyone know it, and you’ll be forced to smother me with my pillow one night after my sniffling drives you all mad. Such a tragedy. Oh, stop hiding. I’m decent, you have my word.”

“If you’re naked when I look up, I will scream.”

“I thought about it, I won’t lie to you, but I’d hate to blind you, or whatever it is Mothers say happen when you gaze upon a naked woman you’ve not wedded.”

The laughter that swept out of him was genuine, and he dropped his hand to his chest, cupping it as he cackled. “You’re horrid,” he said, the words bright and spirited from his belly-laugh. She grinned back at him, bare-legged but modest, true to her word. “Honestly the most horrid woman I’ve ever met.” He allowed himself a lingering look over her legs, golden-warm and long, and said, lilting, “There’s no harm in looking ─ it’s just not very gentlemanly. Punishment is only for naughty boys who do  _ more _ than look.”

“Such a shame. Looking is fine, but doing more is the fun part.” Yeah, he’d bet. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t know; not that she was aware of that. “Throw me one of my soaps? There should be two of them in there.”

“Don’t you want to boil some water, first?” Even as he asked, he hauled her pack up from his spot, helping himself to its contents.

“No,” she said, sweetly, “I’m not a coward who squeaks at the cold. I was raised in Highever.”

He shot her a hard look, seating himself beside his makeshift doublet-blanket. “Mock me if you will,” he said thinly, “but  _ I _ grew up in Redcliffe, I’ll remind you. I used to swim in Lake Calenhad all the time. Those waters get  _ frigid.”  _ He’d found one bar of soap, sweet and buttery like caramelized sugar. “You know,” he said, laughing as he remembered, “the servants at the castle used to goad me into jumping into the lake.” There was the other: it was soft and floral, gentler in its scent.  _ “You don’t have it in you, Alistair, _ they’d say.  _ It’s too cold for you, Alistair.  _ Proved them wrong every time. Arl Eamon would be furious. You’re really not supposed to swim in it, after all, and he told me I’d catch my death of chill.” He presented both soaps to her with a cocked brow. “Which would you like?”

The warm look in her eyes when he met them made him smile at her. “Pick for me.”

Well, that was easy. He knew immediately which he’d preferred. Dropping the reject into her bag, he wound his arm back, watching her shoulders brace in preparation, and tossed the favored to her. She caught it easily, holding it to her face to test its scent, and he watched the corners of her mouth peek out from behind the bar as she smiled.

“Well well,” she said, “Alistair, a Prophet’s Laurel kind of man.”

He’d dug a hole in the dirt while she spoke, just large enough to heat a flagon’s worth of water, and he rolled his eyes at her. “Ah, yes, you’re discovering all my deepest secrets: that I’m allowed to look at women, and that I think flowers smell good, and together, the devastating combination ─ that I like women who smell like flowers. If anyone were to discover these shameful affairs, I don’t know how I’d recover from the humiliation.” He dropped the bundle of kindling they’d brought into his makeshift fire pit dramatically, the back of his other hand pressed flush to his forehead. “Oh, the mortification! The Grey Wardens will disown me. I’d be exiled. You’d find me in the Free Marches, weeping into my cheap beer at all hours of the night, tattered clothes, beard down to my belly.”

Her cheeks dimpled as he glanced at her. “Such a comedian.”

“You like that about me,” he accused her over the sounds of his knife striking against flint.

“I do,” she agreed, and the tone of her voice was indulgent. He looked up at her again, but this time it was measured, and he took his time drinking her in. He had a small fire going now, and, carefully, he set his things aside, then waited. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

He gestured to the water. “I want to watch.”

The Warden’s cheeks suddenly turned pink. “You ─ want to watch me wash my hair?” she asked in a strangled voice. “You’re trying to peek at my smallclothes, aren’t you?”

“Maker’s breath, woman.” He grinned at her, cocking his head in a way that could be construed as him trying to get a better view ─ but he was only teasing. “When we get back to camp, you’re reciting Canticles until dinner to purge your mind of its impurities.” He gestured again, more meaningful this time. “No, I want to watch you dunk your head in. I have a point to prove.”

The breath gusted out of her in a laugh, and she put a hand to her collar like she’d been winded. “Ah. All right. Prepare to stand in awe as I, a fabled Grey Warden, get my hair wet with  _ no _ whining. They’ll sing songs about me. They’ll tell legends!” She threw her arms out, putting herself on display, a bar of soap in one hand. “Witness my most courageous act: braving the waters of Lake Calenhad, a feat that hasn’t been done since the fabled  _ Conqueror of the Lake,  _ a young boy by the name of Alistair. Today, I claim his glory as my own and humiliate him and his lineage for all ages to come. Such a tragedy. For him. For me it’s all very amusing.”

“You think you’re so adorable. Get in the water, we’ll see who’s laughing then.”

He waited, holding his breath, as she settled herself gently onto her bare knees, just outside of the cresting waves. Rolling her sleeves up, she spared him another look from over her shoulder. She almost seemed reluctant now. It didn’t matter to him in the slightest, not after her goading. Amused, he inclined his head and swept out an arm ─  _ after you _ . Bracing herself, she crawled closer to the water, just a bit, and then pitched forward, her head disappearing under the surface with a splash.

She burst back up nearly instantly. “Andraste’s flaming sword, that’s  _ cold!” _

Alistair _guffawed._ He’d never heard her voice so shrill before. “I told you it would be!” He leaned back on his palms, grinning at her as her shoulders hitched, rivulets of icy water disappearing under the collar of her tunic and making her twitch and shiver. “Good on you! Tough as old boots, aren’t you?”

“Shut up, Alistair.” He could hear the water splashing as she disturbed it, and she hissed out a gust of air through her teeth. “Holy Maker.”

He lugged himself to his feet, tankard in hand, and cheerfully made his way over to her. She glared up at him from her spot on the ground, her cheeks flushed from the chill, her hair flattened unattractively to her skull and her face. “Mm. Well, you’ve looked worse, to be fair.”

“Will you shave already? Please? And stop tormenting me?”

“I shall slit my throat just for you, my lady,” he told her in a lordly tone, and she laughed and laughed as he filled the flagon with water. He made himself comfortable next to his doublet once again, popping the jug over the fire as he searched through her things: the mirror, when he found it, was plain and silver, just big enough to fit in his palm. Bigger than his, true enough, and he rubbed a hand over his coarse jaw as he snickered to himself.  _ Childish, _ he thought fondly.

His own tools followed after: a brown leather strop, the same razor he’d had since he was a Templar initiate, a cloth (that he’d, by pure habit, stitched his name onto, in tiny lettering near the bottom), and the plain-smelling shaving soaps he’d acquired from Lothering. Curiously, he dipped a finger into the jug of water he had on the fire; it hadn’t had the chance to heat up yet, and he whooped quietly. “You weren’t kidding. Water’s colder than Morrigan.”

The Warden grinned at him from over her shoulder, running her fingers through her hair, head tilted back. “It’s not so bad once you’re used to it, really.”

“I think I’ll err on the side of caution,” he said, “and use hot water, thank you.” 

“Suit yourself,  _ my lady,” _ she teased as she ran the bar of soap over the ends of her wet hair, working it through the strands carefully and thoroughly. He had to admit, even just getting it wet had drastically improved the look of it. She’d desperately needed this. “What about in summer?” She sat back on her haunches as she worked, meeting his eyes. “Were the waters better then?”

“Sure.” He kicked a leg out, swaying it side to side and propped an arm up on his raised knee. He didn’t mind entertaining her while the water heated; gave him something to focus on, at least. “It was cold, still, but it was bearable with the heat. Less  _ I’m going to turn into ice,  _ more  _ ah, very refreshing.” _

The Warden tittered. “Highever was much the same, but we’re much further north, as you know ─ even the summer months weren’t always warm enough.” She flipped her hair to the other side, working on that part of it just as carefully as the other. “Or maybe I’m not as tough as I pretend to be.”

“Now I don’t believe that for a second.”

“It’s true! Fergus used to dare me to jump in, too. Sometimes I would. Other times I’d be too scared to, and I’d push him in, instead.”

“See? You’re even  _ tougher _ than you pretend to be.”

She laughed, setting the soap between her bare thighs and stroking her fingers through the dark tangle of her hair, easy and slow and gentle, until the mess had become smooth and silky, shiny with soap. “You’re right,” she agreed, smugly, “because sometimes I’d even go in naked.”

Oh. He flushed a little, and tried not to think too deeply about that. They often toed a line together, teasing at each other’s limits, daring the other to escalate their dialogue and take the flirting further, and further, and further. She usually won those sorts of unspoken challenges, and he’d end up cutting the conversation short with burning cheeks while she laughed at him. It was all friendly and in good fun, typically, but it seemed . . . inappropriate to take the bait when he was privy to the bare curves of her warm-toned thighs, thick with muscle and soft with fat. Being in a state of undress should be against the rules, he decided. 

It felt imperative to check the water then, and a quick temperature test determined it was only lukewarm. He nervously wiped his hands on the outside of his thighs, clearing his throat. “And here I was, the exact opposite. I’d jump in boots and all.”

The Warden smiled as she asked, “The water didn’t ruin them?”

“Just the once. I’d stayed in too long.” He found himself chuckling as he remembered it, settling his wrist on his bent knee again. “One of the stable boys had dared me to jump from one of the taller cliffs. Dangerous, if you don’t know the terrain: it was possible you could hit the rocks if you fell too close to the cliffside. You had to take it running, fast as you could. I  _ really _ got some air under me. Anyhow, it was  _ hot, _ and I’d been doing chores with the other boy all day, and when we were done, we were miserable. We thought it’d be a good idea to go for a swim to cool off. He said he’d jump in right after, if I did it first. Huh. It’s funny. I can’t recall his name. _ ”  _ He trailed off, gesturing with his other hand. Now that he was remembering the end of the story, it didn’t seem so amusing anymore. “Well, he was a little twat, anyways. Soon as I jumped in, he was hollering for the Arl. I stayed in the water until I was too tired to keep treading, because I knew I’d be in for a lashing once I got out. Arl Eamon stood,” he laughed dryly as he said it, “on the beach, shouting at me to swim in all the while. That’s the only time I’d ever ruined my boots, jumping into the lake.”

She must have picked up on the shift in his tone. “Were you in much trouble?”

He watched the tendons in his wrist flex as he tensed his fingers then relaxed them. “Yes,” he said thickly. He understood why: Eamon wasn’t what he’d call an affectionate man, but he’d fit a large hand over Alistair’s drenched hair and told him he could have hurt himself or worse with those rocks at the bottom. Moments like those, where Alistair felt cared for, made getting sent away hurt that much more. Beyond that, he’d gotten an angry clout to the ear by one of the serving men later for putting the Arl into a mood, but that piece of the story seemed almost insignificant in comparison to the disappointment he felt as a boy, betrayed and abandoned later, a child cast aside in favor of a wife. He understood why the Arl had done it. He didn’t blame him. It hurt nonetheless.

Gracefully, she didn’t press. “It’s too bad we didn’t grow up together,” she commented instead, rubbing the bar vigorously between her hands to get a lather going. She worked them rough through her hair once she was decently soaped up, rubbing at her scalp. “I would have jumped in with you.”

“I bet you would at that,” he said, grinning, and he meant it. “Something tells me you were trouble as a girl.”

“Why, Alistair,” she scolded haughtily. She shifted on her knees to better face him, sordid in her smile. “I’m trouble  _ now.” _

“That you are,” he agreed fondly. For a long moment, she only grinned at him, her eyes sparkling with it, and he knew he was smiling at her much the same. Once he realized they’d fallen silent, dopily beaming at the other like a pair of fools, he cleared his throat and broke the spell. Another test of the water proved it was now pleasantly warm, and he sat himself upright. Gingerly, he worked a hand past the mouth of the flagon to cup a palmful of water, and he generously wet his face with it. “Wow, warm water ─ truly the height of luxury,” he called, loudly.

“I’m not listening to you.” 

Laughing to himself, he plucked up his own bar of soap and scrubbed it amply over his jaw, his chin, his neck, until he was slippery with it. He set himself up comfortably, hitching both legs up and balancing her mirror on his knees while he swiped his razor against the taut strop that he held between his teeth and his thighs, practiced in the back-and-forth. The first file of his blade under his chin was gratifying, and he took simple satisfaction in the line of smooth skin revealing itself from under the grease of the soap and the dusting of unchecked stubble. He flicked the blade out, dipping the razor into the warm water, and then swiped deep and easy over his beard again, studying his reflection in the mirror.

He was halfway through when he noticed the Warden was watching him. She was sitting just at the edge of the water, her hair rinsed clean, and he craned his head to the side to see her better over his knees. “What’re you doing?”

“What’s that feel like?” She ran her fingers down the underside of her chin.

He quirked a brow at her, grinning as he scraped the razor along his skin theatrically for her benefit, and then he sunk it into the water again. “Like a blade on your throat,” he said dourly, pitching his voice low, and she shook her head at him in playful annoyance. “Come here.”

Her footsteps were near silent as she approached him, and when she leaned over him to lower herself to the ground, he said, “Ah, ah, watch it. You’re dripping on me.” She settled in front of him on her knees, smacking his with an open palm, and he put the mirror aside as he spread his thighs. He drew his thumb along his own jaw while he sat upright, gathering soap onto the pad of it, then pressed it down just under her chin, smearing the lather from his skin onto hers in a wet and silky line. He slipped his hand along her nape, urging her head back, and it was gratifying how she tilted with him, no hesitance. Slowly, slower than he would have done for himself, he dragged the water-warmed razor along her tan skin, over the fine, light peach fuzz of her chin.

It was oddly intimate, once he thought about it: her head balanced in his palm, his knife to her throat, her body angled over him between his open thighs. He’d been watching his blade scrape leisurely over her skin, but the way she’d leaned forward to meet him had given him a lavish view of her collarbone, and, as he noted with shame and delight alike, her generous cleavage peeking out from beneath her modest tunic.

And then, as strange as it was sudden, it dawned on him: she was a woman. Well, of course she was. He knew that. It was the first thing he’d noticed about her, after all, because there weren’t very many women in the Wardens. When he was faced with it, though, it occurred to him that there’d been a disconnect somewhere. She’d been his friend first, woman after. Now she seemed to be both, all at once, and his stomach twisted up tight and hot and  _ good  _ in the wake of this new perspective: she was a beautiful woman, and she enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed hers.

She was ─ she was just ─ she was different. And it wasn’t like he’d never been around women before; he’d been around many. If Alistair could bear to be honest with himself, he  _ loved _ women. He loved elven women, dwarven women, human women, and he had a very healthy curiosity of Qunari women ─ he just enjoyed all walks of them. They were devastating and cunning and larger than life, of course they were, and the Warden shared many of those qualities: she was wickedly smart, with a tongue quick and sharp as lightning, and she was a fearsome warrior but a merciful diplomat, savage on the battlefield, firm and kind off of it. She was special, but every woman was.

Yet he felt differently for her. He felt a way he’d never had before with her.

He supposed it was their friendship that made her so: they got on like a prophet on fire, and he valued their camaraderie. Her admittance into the Wardens sometimes felt like fate ─ like their companionship was meant to be.

Which was entirely why he didn’t want to sit there and leer at her like some repressed prick and tarnish their friendship. As soon as he’d caught himself looking, he snapped his eyes back up into appropriate territory, to the depression of her skin under his blade, grateful that her face was angled away from him. He was  _ not _ that sort of man: he’d been taught to be chivalrous.

Her flesh was soft and yielding under the blade, though he wasn’t bearing down hard, not in the slightest, and the thought that she trusted him was giddying, even if only not to nick her. His thumb found a place on the blunt edge of the razor, and he finished dragging it soundly against the grain, until the curve of her chin made the knife leave her skin with a satisfying  _ scrape _ ─ and it almost looked as though she’d shuddered with it.

Maker. He was seeing things.  _ That did not just happen, _ he reprimanded himself, unconvincingly,  _ I am not a lecher. _ He resolved to put any thoughts of womanhood and beauty and soft, golden warm skin out of his mind for good; there was a war on, for the sake of all that was holy, he couldn’t possibly justify any budding attraction to the one woman he thought had a chance of setting everything right. He wouldn’t distract her with it, and by the pyre, he was going to try and stop distracting himself with it as well. Whatever just happened: he was going to forget it. He was going to forget it so hard. Right now. Immediately. Forever.

“Well?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t sound as tight to her as it did to him. 

The Warden tilted her head down, and her eyes seemed somehow darker when she met his gaze, more pupil than iris. She ran her hand over her throat, rubbing at the slippery residue of the soap that had escaped the bulk of his razor. “Like a blade on your throat,” she agreed, a little dumbly.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said, sliding the razor into the water ─ which was very nearly boiling. Once the blade was rinsed, he wrapped his wipe rag around the flagon’s handle and lifted it from the fire. Then he rubbed it down her chin, too rough, and wiped away the lingering soap. She pawed at him to get him to stop, giggling. “To introduce you to all the joys of the Grey Wardens: the Joining, the Blight, the dying early, the blades to your throat.”

“Of all of those, the blade’s been the most agreeable by far.” She seemed to have come to a conclusion. “It’s the sound of it that makes it interesting, I think. It wasn’t loud for me, but for  _ you,  _ it’s very ─” He watched in amusement as she clenched her teeth, doing her best verbal approximation of a razor slicing through thicker hair.

“The  _ sound? _ You’re so fucking bizarre. Good to know.” He watched her fit her hand along her chin, cupping it as she traced the length of her throat, and she beamed at him. “Agreeable as it may be, I’d suggest that you don’t offer your neck so readily to anyone else. We  _ are _ traitors, mind you.” 

“Trust me, Alistair, you’re the only one I’d let put a knife to my throat,” she said through a laugh. Mentally, he’d already dismissed the conversation, and his only answer was a distracted hum as he pressed his thighs back together in preparation of finishing his own face. She left him there to soak her feet in the lake water, though she departed with a friendly couple pats to his knee as she went.

He’d never liked having to shave when he was younger. It was monotonous and boring and it was hard for him to keep focused on the task when he was so full of energy, when there were a hundred other things a sprightly initiate would rather be doing, and he had cared very little about looking  _ proper. _ That wasn’t to say he was happy to look like a slob, not in the slightest, but he’d found a scant amount of value in seeming put together when he felt rather in pieces. He’d had little choice in the matter, of course, as all neophytes were expected to maintain regular grooming in terms of their hair and their beards, neat and pressed, but when Duncan had recruited him to the Wardens, he’d had the freedom to let his own grow out some.  _ (“As long as a beard doesn’t interfere with your ability to swing a sword, Alistair, you’re allowed it,” _ Duncan had told him as he tried not to smile.)

Now, though, he actually took some comfort in the ritual. It was calming and quiet, almost meditative, and he found that confidence could easily be faked so long as he at least  _ looked _ composed, and he could fool the public at large into thinking he knew exactly what he was doing at any given moment even if he hadn’t the faintest. Admittedly, he’d  _ also  _ discovered that he’d actually grown into his features, and he wanted to accentuate them, not hide them. He wasn’t interested in catching any wandering eyes ─ the Blight was a terrible time for courtship, after all, and he hadn’t been seeking companionship even before Ferelden went to shit anyways ─ but he’d like to appear sorted out at the very least, even if he didn’t intend to seduce any women with his devilishly good looks in the near (or far) future.

Unwittingly, his eyes had set themselves on the Warden again.

He decided, this time, to leave his beard just a little grown out. Evidently it wasn’t a bad look for him.

With a couple more scrapes, he was finished, and he experimentally rubbed his fingers down his jaw, meeting together at his chin. There wasn’t much opportunity to be well-kept, not when they roughed it for weeks on the road, but there was an easy, plain indulgence to even modest acts of personal maintenance. Pleased with his shave, he rinsed his blade one last time, setting aside the Warden’s mirror and the strop as he generously dried the razor. His favorite part was the clean up: he carefully upturned the hot water onto one half of his cloth, then wiped at his face with the soaking garment. The warmth of it was soothing and comforting, and he allowed himself a long moment to simply bury his face in the heat. It was the simple things in life, it truly was.

Once he was properly tidied, he examined himself from another couple angles, just on the off chance he’d missed a patch, or cut in too close. He was satisfied with the job, though, and he fished out the little tin of leather oil for the strop, settling himself back against the incline. This portion of the clean up, too, was a routine he enjoyed: focused and meticulous.

Methodically, he worked leather balm into the strop, studying the horizon. The sun was lower still, but ribbons of it were still visible over the trees, and they casted a soft glow on Calenhad’s waters, golden orange and shimmering. The strop got a pass of the dry part of his washrag, then another, until the sticky, excess balm was wiped clean, and the leather looked healthy once again. It was quiet out here, with just the soft breeze and the sounds of the Warden walking through the waters ─ the air was almost peaceful enough to forget that there was a darkspawn army readying to march over all of Ferelden, and a dragon that could see them when they dreamt.

“Alistair!” the Warden called, her brimming voice breaking him from his thoughts. “Look!”

He’d already been watching her: suddenly, she’d bent in half over the water, and she was grinning at him from over her shoulder as though she’d found something. He couldn’t see what the excitement was over, not from his angle. “What?” Sitting up, he packed away the strop, the oil, his razor, the Warden’s mirror. “If you’re looking at a dead fish, I don’t care. Not unless it’s  _ really _ gross. Then I care a little bit, and I  _ will _ ask that you let me poke it first.”

“You’re such a little boy.” She gave him an imploring look, impatient and earnest as she bounced on her heels, gesturing at the water. He craned, and found nothing of particular interest. “No, no, come here! Look!”

“All right, all right. Maker’s breath.” He set their packs aside as he hauled himself to his feet, snuffing out the fire with dirt and his boot. “It’s always something with you, you know that? Alistair, come for a walk with me. Alistair, what does shaving your face feel like? Alistair, come look at what is probably a scary lake monster that will make you scream like a little girl.”  _ Alistair, run away with me.  _ The thought resurfaced unbidden, and he faltered as he made his way to her ─ he wanted to ask what she’d meant then, about disappearing forever, but he hadn’t the faintest on how to broach it. The words had seemed more serious than he knew.

Maybe he’d find the mettle to ask her what she’d meant later, but for now, he came up beside her, crossing his arms and peering down at the water. It was dark and murky and didn’t seem to hold anything worthy of a thrill. “I’m not seeing it,” he admitted, frowning.

She pointed insistently. “There! No, look, lean down. You have to get close to see it.”

“You’re having me on,” he accused, but he bent himself in half nonetheless, squinting into the waters and seeing only pebbles, dirt, maybe some greenery. She was crouching, and he found himself nearly mimicking her, and as  _ soon _ as he bent a knee, she’d cupped her hands in a flash and splashed him with freezing lake water.

He yelped, startling backwards as the water soaked into his thin linen shirt, his breeches. His hair dripped steadily, and he blinked the water from his eyes as it fell in fat droplets.  _ “Why you little ─” _

She was  _ cackling, _ head thrown back in mirth, shoulders shaking with it. “I was having you on,” she agreed despicably, and he gawked at her in outrage. “Not  _ quite _ the scream of a little girl,” she teased, “but marginally close.”

The air changed then. It went charged, alight with static, and she must have seen the shift in his body language, because hers followed suit: tense and coiled, ready for action. Anticipation thrummed off of her in waves, her feet braced in preparation on the beach. He grinned at her, dangerous. “Don’t,” she warned, and he bolted for her.

She only just managed to narrowly avoid his hands as he snatched at her, and she went  _ running _ , high-pitched laughter trailing behind her, the sound a mix of playful-fear and pure joy. Blight, but she was fast, he’d give her that. Unfortunately for her, he had the longer legs between the two of them, and he was able to close the distance in only a matter of a dozen footfalls.

He caught her by the forearm first, yanking her back to him, and they grappled. “Ooh, you’re feisty!” Wrapping her up in his arms, he locked her own against her stomach with his hands, and she wriggled and jerked herself this way and that. He held tight. “Such a shame you won’t get out of this.”

“No!” she squeaked, brightly. “Okay! Okay! I’m sorry!”

“You’ll be sorry, all right. Squirm all you like.” Alistair was bigger than she was, and it was easy to keep her trapped between his arms, her back to his chest. Hastily, he kicked his boots off while she struggled against him, and they scuffled for a long moment while he tried to maneuver her. Eventually, he won, and he was able to sling her over his shoulder, doing his best nefarious laugh as he marched them barefoot towards the lake.

“Let’s be reasonable! Where are you ─” She pulled at his shirt, at his hair, clawing gently at his face, her legs kicking out in faux-frantic hysteria. She steered him to the side when she yanked on his shirt, but he caught his balance with a laugh, and he bounced her on his shoulder. The little _oof_ that punched out of her was rather adorable, but not enough to save her. “Wait ─ Alistair! No, no! Don’t you _dare!_ Mercy, Alistair, please! I’m sorry! It’s too cold!” 

“Oh, yes, it’s very cold,” he agreed blithely, wading calf-deep into the water, “but you’ll find no mercy here, treacherous Warden. For the king!” And then he threw her in, bounding backwards as he did to avoid the aftermath.

She crashed into the waters with a great splash, and he cringed away from the spray with a grin, blocking his face with his forearm. He took abundant amusement in how she surfaced with a strangled gasp, her arms flying around herself to try and contain the last few vestiges of her warmth ─ clearly to no avail, if he was to go by violent way she shuddered all over.

“You’re a prat,” she snapped, though the shiver in her voice made him snort derisively. Her glower got hotter at the sound. “For the  _ king?” _

He grinned. “Oh, all right. You caught me. That was for me.” Bending in half, he leaned his weight on his knees, palms pressed flush to them. She rose on her knees to meet him halfway, glaring him down in a silent challenge. He clicked his tongue in sympathy. “Aww. Poor, sweet thing. Are you all right?” he asked, pitching his voice into a condescending, saccharine rumble. “You’re looking awfully pale.”

The ribbing got him a face full of cold water, which he guessed was fair. He spluttered through it, staggering away from her, and he moved out of her splash radius until he was on dry land again.

“I hate you,” the Warden said, shaking, and he laughed loud and long as he watched her make her own stilted way back to the beach.

“Such cruel words from such a dear friend of mine.” He put a hand despondently over his heart, inclining his head in grief. “How ever will I go on?”

Her shoulders were hiked high, arms braced tightly at her sides, fists balled up; she was soaked top to bottom, and her teeth had started to chatter. “Don’t you worry,” she said, tensely, “you won’t have to go on when I get to you. Give me my sword.”

“Why, is that a threat? You would do violence upon  _ me?”  _ Alistair beamed at her as he watched her drag herself from the waters ─ and it suddenly became readily apparent that she was freezing in her white, soaked tunic. It took a long moment for his brain to catch up with his eyes, and he stood there stupidly blinking at the obvious evidence that she was chilled to the bone.

He’d tried to forget that under all that armor, all that responsibility, under that soaking wet tunic, there was a woman. Now she was here in front of him, drenched to the skin and grinning at him, and it became evident that he wouldn’t ever be able to forget again.

She seemed to come to the realization at the same time he did; they both started simultaneously. She wrapped her arms around her chest to preserve her modesty just as he briskly turned away, clearing his throat. “Here, let me . . .”

His pace was wooden when he doubled back to his jacket, pulling it up from the ground and shaking it out vigorously, if only to work out the nervous energy that started broiling in his chest. Even when it was obvious there was no more sand to shake off, he kept at it, until any more would have been ridiculous, and he had no excuse not to face her. A little reluctantly, he turned himself back to her, gesturing weakly. “Why don’t you ─ Maker, this is going to sound very bad, but you have my word I don’t mean it in ─  _ that _ way.” A dark brow arched up on her face, jaw trembling from the way her teeth chattered, her arms cupped around herself in a sad attempt to retain both dignity and warmth. “Why don’t you get out of those clothes?”

“Sounds bad,” she agreed, but her smile was wide and genuine. “You didn’t have to throw me in a lake if this is what you were after, Alistair. There are easier ways to get me naked.”

_ Don’t take the bait. Don’t take the bait.  _ “Such as?”  _ Fuck yourself, Alistair. _

Her mouth went stern, and then she did it: her frown wavered, shaking, and then a corner quirked upwards as though she couldn’t stop it, try as she might, and the one single cheek dimpled from her crooked grin,  _ exactly _ the way he liked. His heartbeat faltered in his chest, and then stuttered into action once again, like it had tripped over its feet and was anxiously trying to get itself back on track, beating too fast to make up for lost pulses. The world lurched under him. A blush bloomed in his cheeks. Sweat had started to gather on his palms. Every dopey, besotted tavern song he’d ever heard suddenly made perfect sense.

_ Oh,  _ he realized,  _ I’m in trouble, I think. _

“Such as asking,” she said, slowly.

His revelation had him slower in the uptake, and he goaded her without thinking about it: “Is that right? That’s all it takes for you, hm? One polite inquiry?” Instantly, he felt as though he’d gone too far, that he’d overstepped a boundary that had somehow materialized out of thin air; it was a line that hadn’t been drawn, but he trampled over it all the same.

Well, he’d already dug himself the hole ─ he didn’t want to back out of their flirting now, to let her think he was genuinely uncomfortable. Around her? Never. But he also didn’t want to come off . . . improper. It was banter, he assured himself, they’d bantered before. They bantered all the time. It was routine. Wake up, scrub his face, flirt with the Warden over breakfast, march, flirt with the Warden while beheading darkspawn, march . . . She wouldn’t take offense to him continuing the habit; not if her grin was anything to go by, at the very least.

It just all seemed so different now that he was _seeing_ her different.

She inclined her head towards him, looking up at him through her lashes. “Alistair. Shame on you. Are you calling me fast?”

“I think  _ you’re _ calling you fast, in my defense. I, on the other hand, am a perfect gentleman, and I would never insinuate anything uncouth about a fine young lady. Ever. In all my life. Not even once.”

She snorted, derisively, and looked him up and down. “You didn’t ask very politely, I’ll point out,” she finally said, once she’d sized him up, “but for you? I’ll make an exception.” He hoped he wasn’t blushing as hard as he felt he was. “Mostly because I’m so cold, and I think I’d like to get out of these wet clothes after all.” Surely enough, her face was drained of its usual color, and she was trembling all over. “Unless you’d like to drag an ice block around all of Ferelden.”

He laughed, rotating on a heel and putting his back to her. “I would gladly drag your frozen corpse all over Ferelden, my lady.”

“Has anyone ever told you how charming you are?”

“Am I detecting sarcasm? No. No, certainly not, because I am  _ incredibly _ charming.”

Her laughter was warm and sunny. “Oh, be quiet, Alistair.”

If he listened, which he certainly wasn’t trying to, he could hear the slip of soaked fabric pulling along her skin, a wet and heavy sound that made him acutely aware that she was stripped down to nothing, completely naked behind him, close enough to touch. The realization made him inhale deeply through his nose, quietly as he could, and hold it. His heartbeat was loud and insistent in his ears, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to do with his hands. Strange, he thought, how quickly his perception of her had shifted ─ all it had taken was one look, in one afternoon.

He nearly jumped clean into the air when her fingers grazed along his elbow. “Oh,” she said, her voice tinged with surprise, “sorry. I just need ─”

She didn’t have to finish. Mutely, he worked an arm back, holding his doublet out to her in unspoken understanding, and the weight of the bulky wool and leather left him when she took it. He dropped the arm back to his side as he rocked up onto the balls of his feet, and he shot the sky a pleading look.  _ Maker, if you’re out there . . . _

“All right,” she said, “I’m decent. Freezing cold, but decent.”

He turned to her again, and his horrible mouth betrayed him: immediately he grinned, wide and stupid, when he saw the way his doublet hung off of her shoulders, the way the sleeves swallowed her hands, the hem low enough to almost be a tunic on her. The garment was way too big on her to be classically flattering, but it inspired certain urges nonetheless; instincts that he was currently trying very hard to smother. He wondered if his sword would look as good in her hands as his jacket looked on her shoulders. 

Er. Maker, that sounded bad.

When he realized he’d had yet to say anything, he covered his silence and his smile up with a cough into his palm. “It suits you,” he said, stupidly.

Yet it seemed to be the right thing to say. She grinned back at him, her eyes crinkling with it, and she brushed her palms down the front of it. He could see the way her hands shook as she did so, and her wet hair dripped fat droplets that darkened the shoulders of the doublet. “Does it? I feel like I’m swimming in it.”

“You are, a little bit.” He very nearly told her that it was sort of adorable, but he decided that would be too far, and instead, he distracted them both by vigorously rubbing her biceps up and down through the wool to warm her up again. “You do look thoroughly chilled, I’ll admit. I almost feel bad.”

“Only almost?”

“Only almost,” he agreed with a grin and a wag of his eyebrows. “You’re tough as old boots, like I said. You’ll be fine. You’re looking warmer already!” 

“Are you sure?” she asked, and quick as lightning, she stuffed her hands up his linen shirt, her fingers icy on his stomach. He yelped and shoved her back, and she howled with laughter as she went.

“You’re evil,” he spat, pressing his hands against his belly, over his shirt, until her wintry pinpricks faded. Her salacious smile only proved his point, and she rubbed her hands together in an effort to heat them up, and to appear theatrically diabolical.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, some color returning to her face, “I’m evil. I’m wicked. I’m a traitor. I’m a kingslayer. I’m going to destroy all of Thedas.” She threw her head back then and did her best heinous laugh, low and playfully dubious and utterly cliche.

Alistair rolled his eyes, closing some distance between them to take her hands in his own; he blew on them, warm, and then rubbed them in her stead. “Terrible evil laugh. Just terrible. Not at all convincing. Mine is so much better.” Her cheeks were ruddied by then, her hands growing toasty in his, and her smile had shifted into sincerity. “Hey. You know what? I’ll bet you that Leliana’s soup’s almost done. That’ll thaw your blood.”

The blue of her eyes seemed to sparkle like the ocean in midday sun. Her voice was giddy. “Sweet Maker, you’re right! Oh, what I wouldn’t  _ give _ for a big bowl of piping hot soup right now. Let’s get our gear!”

They split apart and pulled themselves together, one boot at a time; once they were properly packed up, the Warden’s hair had started to dry some, but it was still mostly soaking. Alistair pressed his palm against the crown of her head and scrubbed at it, hard, sending droplets spraying out. “If you catch a cold, I’ll feel terrible,” he admitted.

“I won’t catch a cold.” The Warden pawed at his hand in an attempt to stop him, which only made him redouble his efforts, until he had her skull between both of his large hands, heartily ruffling her hair to shake the water out. “You aggravate me, Alistair,” she told him, but her voice was thick with laughter, and when he stopped his motions, she was smiling up at him with his hands cradling her face.

He turned away before she could see him blush, insistently telling his heart to slow down before he dropped dead. “Good. If I annoy you, all the blood will rush to your head, and you won’t get sick on my account.”

The sun was nearly beneath the horizon now, and it would likely be dark by the time they got back to camp. Even now, the sky was paler, bluer, darker towards the east. They’d better hurry ─ Ferelden nights were chilly, and the summer was still some months off yet. No quicker way to catch a chill than wet hair on a cold night, and no prey more alluring than two people walking on a dark road. (Truly, though, he’d pity any bandits who tried to make a coin off of the Warden.)

He was halfway up the incline when the Warden caught him by the arm, and he stopped to see what she needed, half-turning his body to her. She squinted at him, as though she was trying to figure something out, and then her face cleared. Her smile was bright enough that the lack of sunlight didn’t seem to matter all that much anymore.

“You left your beard longer! I knew there was something different about you.” Her fingers rubbed down her chin. “You just tidied up your cheeks, didn’t you?”

There was certainly no way to hide his blush now, and he raked his eyes over the treeline instead, as though he were checking for highwaymen, just so he wouldn’t have to meet her eye. “Did I? I hadn’t even noticed.”

“You did,” she accused him. “It’s nice ─ it suits you.” That was devastating enough, but as she passed him by, he watched her go, and she stopped just ahead of him to look down on him. Her cheeks dimpled endearingly when she delivered the killing blow. “I like it on you, Alistair.”

By the grace of the Divine, she turned to climb up the hill as soon as the words left her mouth. The breath had stuttered out of him as soon as she wheeled around, and he shakily tried to suck it back in before he suffocated. Stiffly, he followed after her, with a hot face and a broad smile ─ a grin that persisted even as he struggled to dial it down, no doubt aided by the way he replayed her words quietly in his head on a loop. She liked it. Ugh, he liked  _ her. _ He did  _ not  _ want to be happy about feeling this way. Maker, but he was happy about feeling this way.

His pulse was thrumming with thrill and nerves alike: the same feeling when he was a boy, looking out over the cliffside, bright-eyed and bold as he sprinted full-speed and vaulted himself from the edge. The lake had stretched out beyond him, far as the eye could see, endless and open and inviting. There had been nothing but air beneath him, and then an electrifying feeling of falling, fast and hard. The danger that lay below made it all the more exhilarating ─ one faulty step, one moment of hesitation before the leap, and the mouth of the cliffside would have swallowed him up, boots and all.

But this time, it wasn’t the rocky foreshore that would kill him. This time, it wasn’t his boots that would saturate and drown and fall apart at the seams. 

Alistair reeled himself back from the cliff, though the temptation to throw himself from it was heady and seductive. The lure of the jump, the adrenaline of the plummet ─ if he was still naive and daring, he might have pursued them. He might have pursued  _ her.  _ Now, though, he was older and he was wiser and he was  _ hurt, _ and he saw the dangers lining the Warden’s shores, and the fear of crashing against the rocks drove him back from an edge that beckoned him sweetly. There was too much at stake to chase after idle fancies, and he knew he couldn’t possibly leap far enough for a woman like the Warden. He’d never make it, and he couldn’t stand to be rejected once again by someone he admired and respected; he’d had enough rejection for a lifetime.  _ I’ve gotten the message, _ he wanted to say,  _ I am not a man who can be wanted. I’ve gotten the message. _

Her friendship alone was a gift ─ one he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved. He wouldn’t do a thing to ruin it, or change it, or squander it. He wasn’t going to take the jump.

The Warden walked beside him in silence, having been wringing the lakewater from her tunic in slow, firm twists. As she grew satisfied with the state of it, she shook it out, and then tilted her head to look at him. She granted him a smile that had him grinning back at her just as wide, and he put a heavy arm around her shoulders. Very rarely in his life had he felt fortunate, but he felt it deeply knowing that he’d found a friend in her. To have her companionship alone was a privilege enough, and he could easily content himself with that. It was all only physical attraction, and he was confident it wouldn’t escalate beyond that. He wouldn’t let it. After all, he was a grown man and he was in complete control of his emotions. Absolute control.

“I am  _ starving,” _ the Warden told him, and he good naturedly squeezed her to his side. “I think I could seriously eat every Fereldan out of house and home.”

“I’ll bet. I’ve been there, trust me.” He let her go to adjust the strap of his shield on his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Mm?”

“Race you back to camp?”

She stopped walking. The grimaced draw of her mouth was hilarious enough on its own, but both of her brows cocked up, and it  _ made _ the unimpressed look she wore. Alistair couldn’t stop himself from grinning. She’d  _ mastered  _ the look of a woman who was so incredibly nonchalant. “Alistair.”

“Yes?”

“I am the daughter of one of the wealthiest, most powerful families in all of Ferelden. All my life, I’ve been raised to behave with poise, dignity, and elegance ─ you understand that, since birth, I’ve been expected to conduct myself in a manner befitting a refined, high-born young lady, worthy of the Cousland name.” Her dark brow arched higher. “And you have the gall to ask me to race you? Like a couple of unruly children? Do you  _ really _ think I’d stoop so low as to go traipsing across the countryside with you?”

“Yes.”

The  _ thwap _ of her tunic slapping into his face was wet and cold and gross, and he cringed back from the impact of it. “You’re right!” she chimed, her voice already growing distant as she sprinted off. He peeled her wet garment from his face and darted after her, his shield and sword bouncing awkwardly against his back.

“You little cheat!” he called after her, but the words were lit up and merry.

Her laughter blew through him like a fresh wind, and he found himself grinning as he chased her, the pounding of his heart almost as quick as the thudding of his boots. Even if he never caught up to her, even if he never closed the distance between them, to follow her was as great a gift as any.

They were going to do great things ─ they were going to be great. That would be more than enough for him.


End file.
